


Dead Man Walking

by nebulas (strawberry_bee)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 08:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8438713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_bee/pseuds/nebulas
Summary: It’s been years since Overwatch has disbanded for the last and final time, and along with it so did Hanzo and McCree. When McCree shows up in a video killing someone during an arms deal, its up to Hanzo to bring his former lover to justice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My girlfriend told me a story one night when I was sick. This is the result of their beautiful storytelling. Dedicated to them, as always. (Want more? Leave a comment letting me know!)

There is peace in letting the past rest. Hanzo knows that. He begins to let his archery go out of practice, picks up gardening instead. He finds that the silence of his garden preferable to the loud cantankerous meet-ups every year for the Overwatch veterans. Gradually, he loses touch with them all. 

So when Winston lumbers into his garden on a calm evening, Hanzo knows something is deeply wrong. 

“Forgive me for intruding on your retirement, Shimada,” Winston says, sitting across from him. Hanzo only inclines his head in response. He knows there’s something he wants from him, and it’s only a matter of time until he asks for it.

“The reason why I’m here is because of Jesse,” He takes a deep breath, pulling his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose before he continues, “He’s gone back to Deadlock. He’s running it.”

Silence hangs in the air, and somewhere in the garden a bird warbles it’s evening cry. 

“I have not spoken to McCree in years, Winston. I do not know where he’s gone,” Hanzo says. And it’s true. A few months after Overwatch had fallen apart, so had they. It wasn’t that they hadn’t tried-- it was just that there was too much restlessness between the two of them to make it work. McCree wanted to keep setting his name right, and Hanzo wanted to settle his family’s business and prepare the next successor. And so it went. 

“You’re the only one he’d be willing to meet up with, Shimada. If you don’t believe me, look at this video pulled from a camera recording of an arms deal,” Winston pulls out a device from his pocket, flips his thumb over a trigger and a blue illuminating screen blooms between the two of them. Hanzo focuses on the screen, letting out a small sigh.

There’s a man kneeling on the ground, hands clasped in front of him and raised towards some unknown person. It’s clear that he had been beaten to hell and back, blood dribbling down his mouth as he cries for mercy. Hanzo takes in a shocked breath as McCree walks into the frame. He wants to believe it's not him, but there’s the same poncho, the same cowboy hat. And when he raises his arm to shoot, he sees the familiar old glimmer of a revolver. He feels himself frowning, and he knows he doesn’t believe this is Jesse for a second. Until the man turns, inclines to tilt his hat to the camera, pistol spinning carelessly in one hand just the way he used to. The frame freezes just as the man stops the gun, and Hanzo knows that it’s Peacekeeper. The screen blips out of existence, and Hanzo is faced with the grim face of Winston. 

“Tracer came in contact with him while she busted an arms deal, she said it was him as well,” Winston says. Hanzo sets his mouth in a hard line. He knows what Winston wants from him. What they all want from him. And he hates them for it. 

“I will not contact Jesse to take him out,” Hanzo says. He rises to his feet and turns away from Winston. He can feel himself shaking. To think that they would stoop this low, to use his personal connection with McCree…

“If you don’t, he’s going to keep running Deadlock, and it’s already barely manageable as is. We need someone to take him out while we can, and you’re our only chance without putting anyone in direct danger,” Winston says. What he forgets is that Hanzo will be in danger. That maybe McCree has forgotten what it means to love him. 

“I’ll think on it,” He tells Winston. He stays there, standing in his garden until all there is is the low thrum of crickets, and when he turns, Winston is gone. He walks into his home in a fog. He knows what the old McCree would’ve wanted. He would of wanted Hanzo to hit him over the head and tell him off for grounding all his hard work into the dirt. But if the video was true...if Tracer was right about it…

With shaking hands, Hanzo finds his phone. With muscle memory he finds the contact information, types in a request to meet before he pauses to think. There’s no moral issue here, he knows that. It would be like taking down a rabid dog more than anything else. But he can’t help but think about what had happened with his brother. 

He doesn’t want to repeat his past mistakes. Even if McCree is repeating his own. He hits send. Hanzo goes through the motions of making dinner, pretends to try and eat before he gets a response back.

 

I thought id never hear from you again. There’s a diner by my place if you’d like  
to meet there. i would love to travel to you, but my bike wouldn’t be able to take it. 

The attached address points to a little town stuck in the middle of New Mexico. Hanzo bites back a small smile, recognizing it as the town McCree had grown up in. He reminds himself that this isn’t the man he knew before, but it’s hard nevertheless.  
When he leaves early that night, he takes his bow with him. 

The drive is easy, only spanning an hour. From there he takes a private plane from Japan to California. That part is hard. He spends the entire time debating with himself, what he will say to McCree. What McCree looks like now. Hanzo knows there’s more silver in his hair now, and that he’s earned more frown lines than not. He can’t imagine McCree as anything but smiles and easy southern charm. He wonders if there’s silver in his hair now, too. But that’s dangerous territory, and he banishes it from his thoughts. 

The plane touches down long enough to refuel before they’re going to New Mexico. Hanzo almost wishes he took business class, so the layovers could delay the inevitable. He gets a call from Winston, and he shuts his phone off. If he’s going to do this, he isn’t going to get any guidance from anyone but himself. 

The plane lands just past four, and Hanzo immediately loathes the heat of the state. He misses the quiet balminess of his garden, the silence only broken by nature. He gets out of the airport as quickly as he possibly can, catches a taxi to the town. 

When he arrives, he’s startled by how empty it feels. There are people about, yes, but there’s a uniformity to the town that lends itself to mediocrity. Hanzo doesn’t know what he expected McCree to settle down in. Possibly a reenactment ghost town, with him as the town sheriff until he was old and grey. 

Since he has time to kill, he gets a hotel room, where he showers from the day's travels. Despite himself, he makes himself look presentable, with a button down black shirt and jeans. Even though McCree was the leader of a notorious gang, he was still his ex, and he would be damned if McCree thought lesser of him due to his clothes. He binds his hair up in the familiar old ponytail, and by then McCree has texted him the time to meet-up. 

The diner is a real hole in the wall. The red checkered upholstery of the booths are cracked from age. A fly buzzes against the neon signs. Hanzo shoulders his duffel bag and picks a spot out of the way, where he rests his bag against the wall. He orders two coffees and waits. 

He hears the roar of a bike long before McCree enters the diner. He saunters in, all easy charm and grace. From Hanzo’s angle, he can tell that Jesse has a new hat, but the same old belt buckle. Instead of a poncho, he wears a plaid button up tucked into jeans, grease stains on the front pocket of his shirt. The waitress greets him warmly, and he tells her a joke about fixing up ol’ Blueskin before he heads on over. 

If Hanzo is feeling anxious, it’s nothing compared to McCree. Already Hanzo can tell that his eyes are tight, shoulders pushed back. 

“You’re lookin’ like you haven’t aged a single day, darlin’.” he says, in that familiar old rumble saved just for him. Hanzo grunts in response. There’s grey in McCree’s beard, and several more laughter lines to match. His skin is the same shade of beaten copper, from long days in the sun, although Hanzo knows his natural skin tone is just the same. McCree sits down across from him and leans on the table, ignoring the coffee at his side. 

“What caused you to come trudging up old ghosts now?” McCree asks. 

“I can feel nostalgic from time to time, Jesse.” Hanzo says stiffly. He watches as McCree takes his hat off and set it on the counter. His hair is shot with grey, the rich brown turned dusty by the long years in the desert. 

“Ah, well, bad enough I didn’t contact ya first,” McCree says, and drinks his coffee. “What have you been up to all this time?” 

Despite himself, Hanzo tells him. He tells McCree about the promising new recruit that would be taking over the family business, about his garden with the warbling birds, even about Genji showing up for the holidays from time to time. 

“Wish I coulda seen your brother in a christmas sweater,” McCree chuckles. 

“He didn’t wear it for more than a minute after the photo,” Hanzo says, smiling softly. He wishes that McCree was there to see it. 

“And yourself?” Hanzo asks, feeling his chest tighten. 

McCree jumps right into it. He spent a few years teaching kids how to ride a horse, and after he broke his leg falling from a horse, he elected to move back home. Since then he had been repairing his motorcycle, affectionately named Buckskin, and had picked up whittling to pass the long hours. If Hanzo hadn’t known better, McCree had settled into retirement without so much as a fuss. 

“Say, would you like to continue this back at my place? Unless you’re done hearing an ol’ ghost talk your ear off,” McCree suggests at last. Hanzo notices that the waitress hadn’t filled their coffees in the past half hour, a pointed suggestion to move elsewhere.  
“That would be fine,” Hanzo says. 

As McCree pays the waitress, Hanzo can't help but think that McCree will never return here, never again flirt with the waiting staff with his easygoing personality. If he had even done that in the first place. For all Hanzo knew, the waitress was an actress, a ruse to settle the mind of an excelled assassin before he got any ideas about shooting the leader of Deadlock. He follows McCree into the parking lot, expecting some sort of ambush. But all there is is a rusted old motorcycle painted a creamy shade of brown. 

“Ole buckskin,” McCree says with a laugh, getting on and kicking the stand away. “You comin’ or are ya chicken?” 

“I am not a chicken,” Hanzo says fiercely. He shoulders the duffle bag over his back and climbs on after McCree. He laces his arms around McCree’s torso and holds on tight as McCree starts the bike, and they tear out of the parking lot with a roar.  
The good thing about a motorcycle is that it left them no chance to talk. Hanzo spent the remainder of the ride holding onto McCree, wondering how he was going to loose an arrow into his head later. 

They travel down a dirt road just off of the main street, and just as the lampposts have given out, they come to a ramshackle of a house, the paint peeling in long flakes down the sides of it. McCree stops the bike in front of the house and kills the engine. Hanzo slips off, staring at the home. 

“I’m afraid I ain’t got a knack for cleanin’ places up. I thought I woulda done it, but as you can see...” McCree breaks off into a light chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. He takes off his cowboy hat once more, holding it loosely in one hand as he leads the way up the porch steps. Hanzo follows silently, noting that there was a full moon that set the house to a pale silvery grey. The perfect place to set a ghost to rest, he figures. 

Inside there is little to say of the place that McCree has called home over the years. There’s the same old threadbare poncho hanging over a dark green recliner facing a television, beer bottles littered around. There’s an ancient looking flatscreen tv, shut off at the moment. Hanzo sets his duffle bag on the chair. 

“Can I get ya anything?” McCree asks. 

“Water, please,” Hanzo says, back to his stiff formality. 

When McCree rounds the corner to the kitchen again, Hanzo already has his bow drawn, facing his head. 

“What’s all this about, darlin’?” He asks, holding the cup of water in one hand. He doesn’t even move to draw his weapon, the bastard. 

“I know you’re the leader of Deadlock Jesse, I always thought you wouldn’t go back, but here we are,” Hanzo says. 

“Hang on a minute now, don’t make any rash decisions--” McCree moves, and Hanzo pulls his arm back further. 

“Don’t. Move.” Hanzo orders. 

“Hanz, you know me. You gotta believe me, I would die before I returned to that life,” He says, concern leaking into his tone. Hanzo grimaces, remembering the man who had begged for his life. How McCree had carelessly snuffed it out just like that. 

“Tracer saw you doing a deal, Jesse,” He says. He should just fire the arrow, damn whatever he has to say. And yet he holds back. Thrice over he curses Genji, for affecting him even now, when he had all the proof in the world that this was a dead man walking. 

“I swear that wasn’t me, please, let me explain,” McCree says, and he swallows nervously. Hanzo stares him down for several more moments, and gestures with his bow to a wooden chair by the table. 

“Go, sit. Explain.” He says. 

McCree backs towards the chair, facing Hanzo all the while. He sits down slowly, before beginning. 

“A couple of years back, I was approached by a few fanatics, real crazy yknow, and they asked me to start Deadlock right back up,” McCree begins.

“I laughed right in their faces. Anyone who was anybody knows that wasn’t me anymore, despite the rumors. See, they didn’t like that though. I wasn’t about to go and shoot anyone, seeing that was in the barn where I used t’work. Would spook the horses. They beat me senseless, broke my leg and took Peacekeeper. Said they didn’t need the man, just the gun,” He says. McCree swallows, sets the drink down slowly. 

“I’m not a bad man, Hanzo, you haveta know that, don’t you?” He says. And Hanzo doesn’t know if he knows that. He doesn’t know how long they sit across from each other like that, in silence as he decides whether or not he’s able to kill the man he loves.

At long last, he releases the tension in the bow, and McCree smiles.

“Lord, I thought you were abo-”

“Silence, fool. I’m taking you to Winston, to clear this up. If this copycat is as real as you say, we need to stop this before it ruins your name,” He says. 

He follows McCree throughout the house as he packs, and McCree is careful enough to make a show of all the things he does. They both know what’s at stake here. 

“How will be we gettin’ to headquarters?” McCree asks. Hanzo knows he should've thought of that ahead of time. 

“Winston will just have to come here,” he says instead. After a moment's hesitation he shifts his bow and arrow to one hand so he can pull his phone out and turn it on again. There’s a list of missed calls and texts from Winston, all in which he ignores. He calls the man himself, watching McCree all the while. 

“Did you do it?” Winston asks from the other line. There’s hushed talking in the background, and Hanzo wonders who else knows. 

“No, I have him under custody. He says it’s not him,” Hanzo says. 

“Shimada...you know he’s playing you for a fool,” Winston sighs on the other line. Hanzo can feel the anger rising in his chest. 

“I will not be killing an innocent man until proven guilty,” He retorts. He explains in clipped tones what McCree had told him, glaring at McCree all the while. 

“If you really think this impersonator is the real deal, take him out yourself. Then we’ll see if these murders stop,” Winston says. 

“It will be done,” Hanzo says, and shuts the phone off. McCree raises an eyebrow haphazardly. 

“We’re clearing your name Jesse,” Hanzo tells him. 

Despite his claims on not being involved in Deadlock, McCree is able to track down their whereabouts with relative ease. They sit together at the kitchen table, Hanzo studying what McCree looks up on his computer. He tries not to comment on the cowboy wallpaper. 

“Looks like we’re in luck. There’s an arms deal about to go down just twenty miles from here, and seems pretty big too,” McCree says, biting at a thumbnail. Hanzo grunts, leaning forward and studying the page beside him. It’s all in binary, deciphered from code that McCree spent twenty minutes cracking. Hanzo knows its from all the years McCree had spent smuggling hardware across the states, that he picked up coding as a necessity to stay alive in the organization. 

“Will your impersonator be there?” Hanzo asks. McCree furrows his eyebrows, turns back to the computer and studies the code for several minutes longer. 

“Seems like it,” He says at last. 

“Let's go and finish this, Jesse.” Hanzo pauses for a moment, reaches out and rests his hand on McCree’s shoulder. He leans into the touch a little and glances up at him. His eyes are tired, weary of the world.

“I still believe you’re a good man, Jesse McCree,” Hanzo says, and gives his shoulder a squeeze. 

“Thanks darlin’,” McCree says, manages a thin, brittle smile just for him. 

They take buckskin once more, leaving McCree’s bag behind. Whatever happens tonight, they both know that McCree won’t be needing much. He even puts on his poncho for old times sake, and under Hanzo’s careful watch picks a revolver to put in his belt.  
The warehouse squatted low in the fields of ripening wheat, it’s slate roof turned into a beacon by the moonlight. On one end pale golden light spilled out into the dirt, the shadows of men inside scurrying along the gravel. McCree stops buckskin miles off, so they don’t hear them coming. The rest is walking.

By the time they get close enough, the men of Deadlock are sitting outside of the warehouse, cherry red lights flaring from the ends of cigarettes as they took their break. Among them a lone figure leaned against the warehouse door, cowboy hat tilted carelessly over his face. Hanzo freezes when he sees him, earns a concerned look from McCree. 

“S’like seein’ a mirror of my former self,” He admits softly. 

“I did say I was going to be killing a McCree tonight,” Hanzo says, notching his bow with an arrow.

“M’not sure if I should be likin’ this as much as I am,” McCree jokes, causing Hanzo to smile. 

“I missed you, gunslinger,” Hanzo says, before standing in the tall wheat fields. With the perfect shot, he draws and releases. The arrow strikes true, catching the false McCree in the shoulder, pinning him against the warehouse.

“Uhm, darlin’ you missed,” McCree begins. 

“I know what I’m doing, shut up and shoot,” Hanzo shouts, just as the lackeys remember that they did in fact, have weapons of their own. They make quick work of the extras, and it turns out that neither of them aren’t that much out of practice. Before long, it’s just them and the extra McCree. Hanzo strides up to him, over the bodies of the fallen. McCree follows just behind him.

The man doesn’t move as they advance, face masked by the hat. Hanzo reaches out to wrench the hat away when the man jerks up, raising Peacekeeper right at Hanzo’s chest. 

“Shoulda fucking killed you, Jesse.” The man gasps, staring at them both with wild eyes. 

“Hey now, the feelings mutual,” McCree says, lifting his gun to point it at their head. 

“You shoot me, I shoot him.” The man warns. 

“Don’t presume to threaten me,” McCree says, and fires. The man slumps forward, slides off the arrow and slumps to the ground.

“I tried being reasonable, didn’t take to it,” He says to Hanzo deadpan. He stoops down, dropping his revolver in exchange for Peacekeeper. 

“I figure we take this body and dump it at Winston’s feet, what d’you say?” McCree asks. 

“I say we put it online,” Hanzo says. McCree laughs. 

“I like the way you think,” 

The photo they decide on is one of McCree holding up the ruined imposter by the back of his neck, holding up a peace sign. 

“What now, darlin’?” McCree asks. 

“We finish up clearing your name Jesse. We take down Deadlock for good,” He says. McCree loops an arm around Hanzo’s waist, and together they walk back to Buckskin, dead set on a mission for better or for worse.


	2. Chapter 2

Hanzo makes him get rid of Buckskin before they quite leave the state of New Mexico. It’s a heartbreaking experience for McCree. The thing was a complete safety hazard, but it was his baby. But it’s worth it, when they purchase a dusty red camaro with two white blaze running down the hood. McCree insists on driving first, letting Hanzo sleep. 

In reality, he needs to be alone. In the turn of twenty-four hours, his entire life had turned upside down. No longer would he be able to have coffee every morning at the diner, or speak with the townsfolk at the saturday morning farmers markets. He was perfectly happy in retirement by himself. Beside him Hanzo is leaning against the window, sleeping in the black button-up shirt. He had let his hair down before he passed out, and now the morning light soaked into his hair. McCree tries not to glance at him, but it’s a lost effort. 

If anyone aged with grace, it was most certainly Hanzo. McCree wanted to tell him that, wanted to tell him that he needed to smile more often, that those laughter lines were gonna smooth right over if he didn’t lighten up. There’s more silver in his hair, sure, but all McCree wants to do is run his hands through it. He thinks about the dragon tattoos, if they’ve faded with age along with him. He figures not. 

In comparison, McCree knew he had grown a bit larger in the later years. From a combination of losing Peacekeeper and the fact that he figured that he was losing his touch anyhow. He glances in the rearview mirror, frowns at all the wrinkles on his face. He’s an old man getting older. McCree looks away from the mirror, reaches up and tilts the mirror away. There’s no rewinding time. 

And yet time kept repeating itself. He remembers a time where there was a similar stand-off, ages ago where McCree still had peach fuzz on his face. The sun hung low in the desert hills of Nevada, and some Deadlock gang leader was pointing a gun at the chest of his best friend. The man wore a cowboy hat, shoved low over his eyes so McCree couldn’t think to know what he thought. 

“Give me one good reason not to shoot your friend dead right now,” The man had said. 

“I’ll sign up, Peacekeeper is yours,” McCree had said. The man had lowered his gun for half a heartbeat. Long enough for McCree to watch his old friend exhale a sigh of relief, for McCree to lower Peacekeeper. He remembered the bang like it was yesterday, the feeling of brain matter and blood coating his face, the ruin of his friend’s smeared on the burning sand. 

That, was his initiation into the Deadlock gang. 

Never again, he swore to himself, would he be held trapped due to the people he loved. He glances over at Hanzo almost guiltily. No, they were kids when they tried to take on Deadlock. Hanzo was a skilled sniper, there was no way he was going to get himself into a situation like that, and even if he did, McCree would set it right. 

He chooses a worn down motel for them to rest in. He has to shake Hanzo’s shoulder gently to wake him, and when he does Hanzo groans a little, sliding down in the seat to cover his head. 

“There’s a bed inside with your name on it, darlin’,” He says softly. Hanzo sits up at that. Together they slouch into the hotel room, McCree carrying Hanzo’s bags. Hanzo shuffles into the bathroom, shuts the door and a moment later the sound of the shower turns on. McCree looks around the room for several moments, before realizing he doesn’t have any clothes to change into. He leaves a note for Hanzo to find after his shower, and takes the camaro into town.

There’s a strip mall with limited clothing options, but McCree makes do with what they have. He’s careful to only buy the bare necessities, so they could run at any moment. By the time he gets back to the hotel, Hanzo is sitting cross-legged on one of the twin beds, hair bound up in a towel as he looks on McCree’s computer. McCree is surprised to see him wearing a pair of glasses.

“Gettin’ domestic on me now?” McCree jokes, setting the bag of stuff down on the dresser. 

“No. I couldn’t sleep anymore, so I looked through the code,” Hanzo says flatly. 

“I didn’t know you could read code,” McCree says, pulling out plaid shirts and pulling the tags from them. 

“I can't, but I’m learning,” Hanzo says. McCree glances back again, to study him with his glasses on.

“You look good in those, yknow,” He says lightly, turning away to bite back a smile. He misses this, the harmless flirting between the two of them. He hopes it's harmless, anyhow. 

“I only need them for reading,” Hanzo replies, and if McCree isn’t mistaken, he can hear a touch of embarrassment in his tone.

“Well, your newfound limited eyesight is a blessing,” He folds his jeans and shirts into a black backpack, leaving out a pair of dark jeans and a red plaid shirt out. 

“If you need to shower, I suggest you take one now. I don’t want to waste any time while they’re still reorganizing,” Hanzo says. 

“Already gonna hit the road?” McCree tries not to let the disappointment into his voice. He glances at the empty bed almost wistfully.

“Unless you’ve grown soft on me, Jesse.” Hanzo says. 

“‘Course not, just let make myself decent first,” McCree says.

After he steps out of the shower, Hanzo has already packed everything else away. He sits on the edge of the bed, flipping through his phone. McCree is a little disappointed to see the towel gone, in its place an impeccable hair bun. 

“Our photo has gotten a bit of attention from everyone,” Hanzo says, glancing up briefly before turning back to his phone. 

“Oh, are we Instagram famous?” McCree teases. Hanzo wrinkles up his nose.

“What is with you and these old fashioned things, Jesse?” Hanzo asks. 

“Whatever gets ya to make that face, doll,” He says breezily. He puts his things away into the backpack, swings it over one shoulder and turns to Hanzo.

“Mind drivin’ for awhile? I’m afraid I’ll need to get some shuteye before we take anything on,” McCree says. 

“As long as your snoring has improved,” Hanzo says shortly. McCree smiles. He knows for a fact that it’s gotten worse. 

He clocks out before they even leave the town. It’s not much of a sleep anyways. He dreams of Tracer, her machinery malfunctioning, destabilizing before his eyes. Of Roadhog, his entrails spilling all over the earth as he gives his life for the payload. McCree wakes with a start, looking around wildly for where he is.

He almost strikes out at Hanzo in the driver’s seat, only stopping when he notices the drawn face. 

“You still have them?” he asks, over the roar of the engine. 

“Can’t say they ever stopped,” McCree admits, pushing the hair back from his eyes. Nightmares were no stranger to either of them, but they always left McCree shaken to the core. 

“Do you wish to speak of it?” Hanzo asks, the way he used to. McCree shifts in his seat, debating for a few long moments. 

“Yknow when Roadhog spilled his guts everywhere?” He makes himself smile at his own joke, even though it curdles. Hanzo only inclines his head in response. 

“Well, it happened again, ‘cept he kept pourin’ forth like there was nothin’ but innards and innards that he pulled out himself, hands bloody an’ covered in his own entrails,” McCree feels the bile rising in his throat, forces it right back down. 

“I’m sorry, McCree,” Hanzo says. “Last i heard of Mako was that he was robbing a bank with Jamison down in Brazil.” 

McCree makes himself laugh. “Good to hear some of us never change,” He says. 

“We all have our dreams,” Hanzo says. 

“An’ whats your dream exactly?” McCree asks, leaning into the backseat to grab a water bottle. 

“The same as it ever was,” Hanzo replies, and doesn’t open up past that. McCree slouches back in the seat, watches Hanzo closely for several more moments. 

“Hmm, where we headin’ off to now?” McCree asks at last, changing the subject. 

“I got a call from Winston. There’s another arms deal going on just up the road here. If you’re feeling up to it, we can easily take out another branch of Deadlock just like that,” He raises his hand into the air and snaps his fingers, as if it’s really that easy. 

“I swear you’re tryina kill me with this pace,” McCree groans, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. 

“No, I killed you yesterday, remember?” Hanzo deadpans.

“You’re never gonna let that go, are ya?” McCree sighs. He downs the water bottle in one go, takes out Peacekeeper and assures himself that it’s fully loaded. The revolver has a few more scratches than before, and McCree can just tell that they hadn’t even cared to take proper care of it. He wishes he could kill that bastard for every nick Peacekeeper had earned from his carelessness. 

They pull up to the compound just fifteen minutes later. Hanzo leans into the backseat, pulls out his bow from its duffle bag. He opens the door before he shakes the bow open, seeing that it wouldn’t fit in the space of the front seat without hitting McCree full on in the face. They both step out of the car, and after McCree cracks his back, they begin to skirt around the massive wire fence that surrounds the compound. 

The place is heavily guarded, there’s no doubt about that. There’s the distant barking of guard dogs, and they have to keep in the overgrown wheat just to be kept from being seen. 

“Think it’s electrified?” He asks Hanzo. 

“Most likely, want to touch it and find out?” Hanzo dares him. 

“About that killin’ me thing…” McCree begins, causing Hanzo to laugh. McCree leans down and picks a stalk of grass. He strides up to the fence and allows the blade to fall against the fence. There’s no zap, and after a moment he touches the fence himself.   
Because he can’t help himself, he acts like he’s been electrocuted. 

“McCree!” Hanzo shouts, and McCree let's go, howling in laughter. 

“You fool, why would you joke like that?” Hanzo demands, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. McCree wipes away a tear, noticing just how frightened Hanzo looks. 

“Aw, jus’ a bad joke is all,” McCree says quickly, but Hanzo has already backed off, a stern look to his face. 

“Hurry up and climb that fence before I think to shoot you,” He says. McCree is quick to comply. Once he’s on the other side, he keeps watch while Hanzo climbs over after him. Once together, they’re careful to stay low to the ground, so not to alert anyone to their presence. Hanzo makes quick work of the sentries while McCree keeps Peacekeeper loaded. When the coast looks clear, they stride towards the building. 

“Ready, darlin’?” McCree asks.

“Always, gunslinger,” Hanzo says, and kicks the door in. 

The fight quickly goes south after that. For one, McCree isn’t as good of a shot as he once was. He gets the hang of it fast, but it’s too little, too late. There’s too many, and before he can quite tell Hanzo to run, they’re on him. 

There’s much to be desired with McCree’s hand to hand combat skills. He knows he's too slow, too delayed in every movement he makes. He has no time to see where Hanzo is before he’s hit in the back of the head, losing consciousness just like that. 

 

When he wakes, every inch of him hurts. Peacekeeper is missing from his holster once more, and in the dim light of wherever the hell he is, Hanzo is not beside him. McCree lifts his head, notices that there’s someone sitting in a metal chair across from him, spinning Peacekeeper in their hand lazily. 

“Careful, she bites,” McCree says, and spits bloody phlegm at their feet. They only laugh behind a black mask, resting a hand on one knee. 

“You’re nothing to be afraid of, you’re all bark and no bite,” They laugh once more. 

“Where is Shimada?” McCree asks instead. 

“Somewhere around here, I’m sure. There’s no way he’s going anywhere, though,” They shrug, switch the revolver to the other hand, begin spinning it that way too. McCree juts out his jaw, trying not to be baited. 

“I thought you’d be more upset. Didn’t he mean something to you at some point?” They ask. 

“Yeah, at some point,” He says flatly. If only he knew where Hanzo was, then he could think. 

“Then you won't be upset when he dies, right? I mean, it’s not like you’ll be knowing or anything,” They stand and drop the gun carelessly to the floor, right at McCree’s feet. He doesn’t even pretend to reach for it; he knows he’s tied up. There’s no way in hell he will give them the satisfaction of struggling. 

“You’re quite the bore, for a legendary outlaw,” They say, a hint of disappointment in their tone. “And old, too,”

“So I heard. Age catches legends fast,” McCree says sourly. He’s getting real tired of everyone calling him old, especially himself. 

“No matter, I know just the thing to get that old heart beating,” They say, and turn, pressing a button under the table. A hidden projector turns the far wall into an array of security footage, blinking rapidly through the compound before settling in a massive room. And smack dab in the center was Hanzo, head downcast. McCree ignores the obvious. There’s a catch here, and it doesn’t take long to figure it out. 

They’ve strapped a bomb to Hanzo’s chest. McCree can't help but laugh at that. It’s out of sheer panic, truly. He has no idea how he’s going to save him, let alone his own skin. The stranger takes it for a threat. 

“Laugh all you want, but soon we’ll be sending you in to scrape little bits of Shimada off the floor,” They say. 

“I was never any good at cleanin’ up other people’s messes,” McCree tilts his head to the side, judges the person. They’re of slim build, but he knows that in itself is easily misleading. He wonders why they haven’t shown their face yet. Generally when people gloated, they loved to let the whole damn world know who they were. He knew he did. 

“They say you can’t teach a dog old tricks. But we’ll see,” They walk around McCree, out of range of his peripheral. A moment later a door clicks open, and then shut once more. He doesn’t let himself believe he’s alone for a second. They’ve got their eyes on him, this newborn Deadlock. And it was about time he showed these rookies how it was done. 

The first part was getting out of the damn chair. They had zip tied his arms behind his back to the chair, but they had left his legs free. There’s no way he can break out of them with brute strength anymore, although after a few more minutes of debilitating silence it’s starting to sound like the keenest idea he’s had all day. He manages to break the zipties holding his cybernetic arm, and that’s enough for him to work the other zipties off with his freed hand. He’s just about to tip forward to snatch up Peacekeeper when a spectral dragon slides through the vent of the room.

“Fancy meetin’ you here, after all these years,” He whispers out of the corner of his mouth. The spirit blinks at him warmly, as far as spirits can go in the comforting presence department. The dragon zips through the open air and hides itself from underneath the chair. McCree keeps his posture the same way it always was, hoping that they didn’t notice a random glowing blue dragon trespassing. 

He takes a deep breath and dives forward into a roll. When he springs up facing the door, he has Peacekeeper in his hand. The door remained tightly shut.

“Lead me to him, you got it? I’ll just concentrate on shootin’.” McCree says to the dragon. The spectre bobs its head up and down in acknowledgement, zips through the door. McCree strides over and lifts one leg, kicks the door in. 

He’s pleased to see an arsenal of guards waiting for him. He may be old, but they were still afraid of him. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, the way they fall down one after the other. When there’s no more guards to challenge him, he lowers Peacekeeper. The dragon is at the end of the bloody hallway, bobbing for him to hurry up. He gives chase. 

They run through the compound, down flights of stairs into the bowels of the earth. McCree tries to remember their path in case Hanzo’s guardian flickers out, but it’s all he can do to keep up as it is. At every turn he’s challenged, and every time he’s met them square on. He can practically hear what Hanzo would say to his stance. That it’s too open, it’s inviting a sniper to take him out at any given opportunity. But when he’s the only enemy...well, there was no point in being inconspicuous. 

McCree is out of breath when they finally skitter into where Hanzo is being held. He has a stitch in his side too, and he has to lean against a wall to catch his breath. The dragon seems to chirp at him in anger. He waves them away. 

“Listen, ain’t so young anymore, got it?” He gasps. After a moment he pushes off the wall, where Hanzo lays. He kneels beside him, looks at the bomb. 

“Got any magical solutions to this one, eh?” McCree asks, glancing up at the dragon. They bob up and down uncertainly, even shimmy in midair a little. 

“Yeah, me too,” He grumbles. The dragon winks out of existence, and McCree is about to call them a good for nothin’ son of a bitch when Hanzo stirs. 

“Jesse? Your lips split,” Hanzo mutters. 

“Ain’t gonna be kissin’ anyone anytime soon, darlin,” McCree says. He hadn’t even noticed. 

“Mm, I feel like hell,” Hanzo shuts his eyes again, makes a face. 

“Uhm, well, how d’you feel about a bomb bein’ strapped to your chest?” McCree says.

“What? Get it the hell off me!” Hanzo’s legs kick at the concrete flooring, as if that could get him further away. He gives McCree a panicked look, and McCree can tell he’s on the edge of a panic attack. Not that he blames him. 

“Yeah, that’s the idea,” McCree reaches behinds Hanzo, breaks the zip ties tying Hanzo up. Hanzo rubs his flesh arm for a few seconds, working the blood back into it. They had strung him up so tight that his wrist was bleeding. 

They both stare at the bomb, like it's the only thing in the world worth looking at. 

“You should get out while you can,” Hanzo says at last.

“Hang on now-”

“Listen to me, Jesse McCree. I got to finish what I wanted in life. I’m only here to help you with yours,” he reaches up, tentatively brushes his fingers against McCree’s cheek, “if I must die to clear your name, so be it.” 

McCree shakes his head, brushes Hanzo’s hand aside. “You’re the only one who cares about my score anymore, there ain’t no reason I’m gonna go off an leave you now,” 

Hanzo glares at him for a long moment. McCree winks at him before ducking his head, to better study the interconnecting wires that attached themselves to the bomb. He wants to ask if Hanzo has his phone on him, if they can just call Winston and have him puzzle this one out. But then he thinks he’s got it, if he just rips this wire, and maybe...just maybe…

“I think I got it,” McCree says. “Any final words before I blow us both up?” 

“Fool,” Hanzo tells him. McCree glances up and smiles brightly, and he can feel his split lip throb in pain. And just because, he leans forward and kisses Hanzo on the cheek, leaving a smear of blood on his face. 

“See ya on the other side, darlin’.” He says affectionately, and breaks the wire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, there's another chapter coming. This was just getting rather long so I cut it short ;)


End file.
